


Season's Meetings

by vialattea



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Human, Ficlet Collection, First Meetings, Halloween, M/M, Meet-Cute, Missed Connections, Mutual Pining, bad magician aziraphale specifically, do u ever feel like a plastic bag, drifting through the wind, excessive flirting, from across a cash register! and other exciting locales, halloween party, magician aziraphale, these could not be less scary, wanting to look at the pretty bookseller for the fifth time this week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:02:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27176941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vialattea/pseuds/vialattea
Summary: A few first meeting AU ficlets forracketghost's 13 Days of Halloween prompts! Because the "season" in "season's greetings" is definitely referring to Halloween, a season which lasts until December 24th.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 190
Kudos: 342
Collections: Racket’s 13 Days of Halloween





	1. Costumes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aziraphale makes the best of a bad situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [Anti_Kate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anti_kate) for beta reading!!

The music is _loud._ Loud and tonally inconsistent, like Gabriel cannot decide whether he wants his party guests to experience seasonal festivity or imminent doom.

As if Aziraphale needs further cause to regret his costume, its lack of pockets is the sole reason he’s stranded here without earplugs or a pocket watch. That pocket watch is his only companion at these events — his one reminder that he is not, in fact, trapped in purgatory. Despite everything, time does pass.

Or at least, Aziraphale hopes it does. There is a concerning lack of evidence now. Gabriel’s penthouse is devoid of wall clocks, devoid of wall _anything_ except some abstract art that would look more at home in a Marriott hotel lobby.

And with that thought, Aziraphale’s last spark of resistance fizzles out.

He will need to speak to someone.

He looks around until he spots a redhead in sunglasses and tight black clothes. The kind of person who would definitely have a cellular phone, and could definitely tell him the time, or at the very least connect him to some riveting hold music.

Aziraphale takes a breath and approaches him.

"Pardon me, do you happen to have the time?"

The man turns. He stares at Aziraphale blankly for a few seconds before answering, "Huh?"

"The time?"

"Oh. Yeah, um.” He lifts his wrist in a feat against physics to glance at what appears to be a microwave on a leather strap — only it must be a watch, because he looks up and says, "Nine."

"Nine exactly?"

"Nine exactly.”

Aziraphale’s face crumples.

The man raises an eyebrow. "You don’t look too pleased."

"It’s just— no, it’s nothing. I’m sorry to have bothered you." 

Aziraphale turns slightly before he feels a hand on his arm, a gentle request to stay. He stares at the point of contact. 

The man shoves his hand back into his pocket. 

"Listen. I mean, go if you want. But you look like you’re having a miserable time, and we happen to have that in common, so you may as well chat with me about it."

Aziraphale hesitates, then drops his shoulders. "Well if you must know, I am technically obligated to be here. Gabriel makes all his employees come to his parties. But I’m allowed to leave in half an hour — presumably that’s when all the trendy folks arrive."

“You mean to imply that white robes and fuzzy halos aren’t cool?” says the stranger, lightly pulling Aziraphale’s halo with an elegant finger to send it bouncing. 

"Apparently not,” Aziraphale grumbles, his earlier pique returning. “It was meant to be a group costume, but all my colleagues showed up wearing pastel suits! They say it’s some ‘modern reimagining’ of the angel. But I must have missed the email, and now I just look silly. It’s humiliating.”

“You look like an angel. And the costume isn’t half-bad either.”

Aziraphale’s heart flips. He smiles, then rakes his gaze down the man’s body with no effort to hide it. “And what are you supposed to be?”

The man pulls off his sunglasses, folding them into the collar of his Henley and exposing a peek of chest hair. It’s so distracting Aziraphale does not immediately notice his piercing yellow contacts with slitted pupils.

“Demon,” he says. 

“The serpent tattoo is a nice touch.”

The man winks. “That bit’s real.”

“I see.” Aziraphale should not be so attracted to that; he _really_ shouldn’t. A face tattoo. Honestly. 

The man puts his drink down on a nearby table. “Crowley.”

“Pardon?”

“My name’s Crowley.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale repeats, liking the shape of it, the way the sound feels in his mouth. “I’m Aziraphale.”

Crowley glances at his wrist then leans in. “Tell you what. It’s 9:15. I live downstairs, so I can make sure to run into Gabriel tomorrow. Why don’t we both get out of here and I’ll tell him I saw you leave at ten.”

“Oh, I could _kiss_ you.”

Crowley grins, bright and sincere. 

And Aziraphale can’t help himself. “Do you know, you have the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen.”

Crowley blushes immediately, launching into a series of consonants that never quite land on a particular word. It’s devastatingly adorable.

“I mean it,” Aziraphale continues, emboldened. “And I don’t want to go if I’m missing an evening I could have spent with you. I’ll stay as long as you can tolerate hearing this _Ghostbunkers_ bebop over and over.”

Crowley runs a hand through his hair. Aziraphale wants desperately to touch it. 

“Come with me.”

“Hm?”

“Come with me to my flat downstairs. We don’t have to— I mean, we can just, just put on a film or something. If you like.”

Aziraphale is nodding, doesn’t know how long he’s been nodding, cannot stop nodding. “Yes. I would very much like.”

* * *

“Hey, angel,” says Crowley, sliding a glass of orange juice across the kitchen island.

“Mm?”

“You know, I had a wonderful time last night, and I would love to keep seeing you. But…” He takes Aziraphale’s hand. “There’s something you should know.”

Aziraphale pales. “What is it?”

“If you lined up everyone in the whole world and asked them to describe the _Ghostbusters_ theme, nobody — _at all_ — would say 'bebop.'"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading!! ghostbunkers is bebop i will die on this hill


	2. Bonfire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley has perfect timing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [Anti_Kate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anti_kate) for beta reading!!

Crowley is, once again, in A.Z. Fell & Co.

Frankly he’s lost track of how many times this has happened. The first one he could’ve called a fluke. It was drizzling and cold and he’d made the idiotic decision to go for a _walk_ — that’ll teach him — and the whole thing presented itself as an excellent opportunity to engage in some quality loitering. 

Then he saw Aziraphale.

Or Aziraphale Z. Fell, as he introduces himself to everyone who enters the shop. From the highest swoop of his curls to the tips of his brogues he looks absolutely ridiculous, and has the behavior to match. With some customers he hovers ruthlessly, offering them information on every book their eyes so much as flit past, never straying more than a few feet away. With others he’s so inattentive and cold you’d think they were ghosts who hadn’t noticed they’d died yet.

It’s as if he has a sixth sense for how each person would prefer to be treated. And then he does the opposite.

Crowley _loves_ that.

And the first time, he found it incredibly entertaining. If he stayed for a few extra minutes after the rain had passed, well, that didn’t need to _mean_ something. Aziraphale hadn’t so much as glanced at him, after all. His particular attention was irrelevant.

But then he happened to stop by a second time. And a third. And considering however many had followed… Crowley is an excellent liar, but not _that_ excellent. 

So— so _what_ if he’s here to look at the pretty bookseller man. Everyone has guilty pleasures! And he is reasonable about it, thank you very much. It’s not as if he wants to risk implying he _reads._ He’s just here for some respectful ogling, from a distance.

Only when he steps into the shop today, something feels… off.

It appears empty of other customers, which is not in itself unusual. But there’s clearly one tucked away in the back somewhere, because Crowley can hear quite a bit of angry muttering from Aziraphale and angry yelling from someone you might call Scottish if you were quite generous, which Crowley isn’t.

He creeps further into the shop to eavesdrop, catching something about demons and a “great Southern pansy” — yikes — before Aziraphale _snaps_.

“Leave my shop this instant, you stupid man!”

On cue an older fellow storms from the back and out the door, slamming it shut so firmly behind him it knocks over a lit candle. 

Crowley dives for it in a panic but it’s too late — the candle rolls under a nearby bench and immediately turns the materials beneath to kindling. 

“Fuck!” says Crowley, stamping out the flames with his very expensive shoe. It takes a minute to stop them completely, and by then the damage is done. A few items have minor singeing, but the pamphlet the flame had reached first is unrecognizable.

And of course _now_ is when the bookseller finally emerges. 

“Excuse me,” he says snippily, “if you could avoid stomping on the merchandise—” 

“I’m not st— that man knocked over a candle! If not for my stomping this whole shop would’ve been a bonfire in ten minutes. You’re _welcome.”_

Aziraphale pales. “Oh.”

Crowley feels a pang of regret at his harshness — the man is deeply shaken in more ways than one, his eyes pink around the edges. 

"You were crying,” Crowley says dumbly.

Aziraphale looks away. “It’s nothing.” He drops to his knees to inspect the damage, picking up the charred pamphlet. "This was an original program for _The Sound of Music."_

"Pity. Loved that one.”

He meets Crowley’s eyes. "Really? It’s the worst thing I’ve ever seen."

"Oh, me too,” Crowley breathes. “Thank God. I really panicked for a second there.” 

Aziraphale giggles, because of course he has to be as endearing as possible always. Crowley realizes with a crushing certainty that every second of his life going forward will be spent wanting to hear that laugh again. He’s flown too close to the sun. 

Aziraphale gingerly places the pamphlet on the bench as he rises again. “What’s your name?”

“Crowley.”

"Crowley. I've seen you browsing before, and you never buy anything.”

Shit. 

“Ehrm—” 

“It’s wonderful. You’re my favorite customer.”

“I— what?”

He fiddles with his ring. “I close early on Halloween to avoid the foot traffic. I don’t suppose you’d want to stay for tea?”

Crowley's eyes widen. This is it. 

This is it, this is it, _this is it._

"Yeah! Yes," he manages. "Yes, that would be— terrific."

Aziraphale smiles and Jesus, his eyes _twinkle_. Crowley might collapse. 

"Lovely. Will you be a dear and flip the sign for me while I put the kettle on? You can meet me over there in my back room."

Crowley nods, waiting until Aziraphale steps out of view before racing toward the door. He flips the sign. And for once in his life, he does not try to convince himself the invitation is meaningless.

Crowley is an excellent liar, but not _that_ excellent. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aziraphale said TREAT YOURSELF (to a SPOOKY DATE)


	3. Ouija

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a missed connection is rediscovered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thank you to [Princip2914](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princip1914) for beta reading this ficlet!

“Oh my god. It’s you.”

Aziraphale’s gaze shoots up. His book tumbles to the floor. “Crowley.”

“Hi,” Crowley breathes, looking equal parts relieved and elated. “Oh my god. Hi. Sorry, I must seem completely mad right now. I’ve just been trying so hard to track you down— That sounds creepy. Shit. I mean—”

“I have your earring,” Aziraphale says, still struggling to process Crowley’s presence let alone his words. “I found it on the floor after you left. I’m sorry — I probably shouldn’t have kept it, but I…” He trails off, not confirming the truth aloud: _I wanted to remember you._ Instead he opens a drawer beneath the till and retrieves the earring, an inverted heart of opalescent glass with a hole near the center.

It had been tucked among the waves of Crowley's hair — the first thing he'd noticed before Crowley turned to speak to him. It had reminded Aziraphale of the white satin moths he saw so often as a child, nestled between blades of grass. Perhaps that was why he noticed it at all in the darkness of the bar, among the dozens of people who had already sat beside him to nurse a drink.

It had enamored him before everything else about Crowley had grown to enamor him as the evening progressed. The first of many details he would commit to memory and comb through over the coming weeks, searching for answers.

It was only the next day, as Aziraphale observed the treasure in his hand, that he recognized the shape for what it was: a Ouija planchette. 

“It’s a beautiful piece of jewelry,” he says, stepping out from behind the register to offer it back. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to be able to return it.” 

“I’m glad to see it again,” Crowley says softly. He takes the planchette, fingertips brushing Aziraphale’s own. Cold, yet they leave an electric warmth behind.

“I must confess, that’s… a relief to hear. I wondered if there was a reason you didn’t come back for it.” Aziraphale swallows. “I waited quite a while.”

“The call was an emergency. I had to go — there was no time to pop back in and say goodbye, no time for anything. Once it was dealt with, the Halloween Happy Hour was already over, and the bar had closed as well.” He steps closer, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. I’d never have left if I had a choice.”

Aziraphale remembers his own desperation with no full name, no phone number, nothing but a ghost of a memory and a planchette that couldn’t reach him. He’d given up in a matter of minutes. “How did you find me? Why now?” 

“You mentioned owning a bookshop. I figured wherever you are, I’d come to you. I’ve been stopping by every one I could find for the past few weeks. Can’t believe it worked, honestly.”

“You must really like that earring,” Aziraphale says with a widening smile.

“I do. I really do. Most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen. Best conversation I ever had.”

“With the earring?”

“With the earring.” Crowley beams. “Um. Anyway. I would love to pick up where we left off.”

“Yes. Or perhaps…” Aziraphale closes the distance between them, eyeing Crowley’s lips. “Perhaps we can skip ahead a bit.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for those who are curious, [this](https://static.inaturalist.org/photos/2991338/large.jpg?1544542618) is a white satin moth, and [the leftmost planchette of these](https://www.instagram.com/p/B2Hf5sLgaPX/) is very similar to what crowley’s earring looked like in my head.
> 
> thank you so much for reading!!


	4. Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a magician has supernatural charm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may or may not have gotten a bit carried away with the length on this one because I may or may not have a profound and undying love for magicians.
> 
> Thank you so much to [Princip1914](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princip1914) for beta reading!

If Crowley had known that becoming an uncle would one day mean having to stand in this place at this moment, he simply never would have done it.

Never mind the fact that Anathema's child-rearing decisions were not subject to his approval. She could have at least _warned_ him. _Hi Anthony, we're having a baby, and in eight years, two months, and fifteen days, you will need to supervise at his Halloween party. Surprise!_ Just as a courtesy. So he could emotionally prepare.

At the very least she could have mentioned the goddamn _magician._

To have hired one at all is insulting enough, but she had to go ahead and hire a _bad_ one — the kind with a painted-on mustache and a "chest of wonders" he probably discovered in the mysterious land of someone’s front yard. The kind whose performance dialogue could have been written by Queen Elizabeth’s most disappointing court jester. “The Amazing Mr. Fell” has been nothing short of ridiculous so far, but is that all? Of course not. God may as well go for the jackpot of tailored misery when it comes to this disaster.

He is also devastatingly, horrifyingly attractive.

It’s the fucking— the _confidence_ is what it is. The light in his eyes that outshines everything in the room, the way he wiggles his shoulders at any opportunity. Like he _knows_. 

It certainly isn’t the mustache. That is not a possibility Crowley is willing to consider right now. 

“Where has he got to… Is he here? Somewhere?” the man says, using a wand to tap one of three inverted cups before him. He lifts it up and tilts it toward the audience, revealing a rubber ball stuck at its base inside. He does not seem to notice that it also reveals the mechanism behind the entire first half of the trick. "There he is!"

A child coughs.

The Amazing Mr. Fell swipes away the cups and retrieves a deck of cards from the chest. “But it’s not only tricks you will see this fine afternoon, gentlefolk! There are also _treats_.” He wiggles his shoulders. “See here, a standard deck of fifty-two cards. Unless… could there be something more to it? De—" 

The cards burst from his hand, fluttering like confetti to the floor. He manages to catch exactly none of them, but in his attempts a few sherbet lemons drop from his sleeve. "We’ll, uh, come back to that one."

_Pray that he doesn’t_ , thinks Crowley.

"Now then! For my next trick, I will require some assistance from a member of the audience." 

He mimes an exaggerated search of the tiny crowd. 

Crowley sinks further into his fold-out chair and looks away, trying to appear as unfriendly as possible. It's not a challenge. Most performers can sense when someone— 

“You, my fine jack-sauce! Come here." 

Shit.

Crowley waves his fingertips back and forth across his neck in an _absolutely the fuck not_ gesture, which Mr. Fell shows no sign of noticing.

"Come on up! It will go much more smoothly with your help." He looks at Crowley, pleading.

No, not just pleading — with full-blown puppy dog eyes. He’s playing dirty, the bastard. 

Crowley sighs. He rises from his chair and steps onto the "stage" — which bears an uncanny resemblance to Anathema's living room — awaiting instruction. 

“Hello,” Mr. Fell says sweetly. 

“Hi.”

“Would you be so kind as to tell me your name, my dear?”

_My dear._ It sends butterflies whizzing about in Crowley’s stomach. Disgusting of them, really.

“Crowley.”

“A round of applause for Crowley, please!” he says, gesturing broadly.

The children offer a weak smattering of applause while most guardians remain still. Hastur claps exactly once. Probably because Crowley stole his goodie bag earlier.

Mr. Fell faces Crowley again, then winks at him — _winks_ at him — and with the eye not facing the audience, too; that was a _personal_ wink. God above. It was for the trick, certainly. But— wait, is Crowley meant to be in on something now? Oh no.

“If you wouldn’t mind standing here, please…” Mr. Fell guides him by the waist, hands surprisingly strong. He could probably pin Crowley down if he wanted and not break a sweat. And then he could— 

_Nope! No,_ thinks Crowley. _Not imagining that right now._

He might imagine it later.

“Very good! Now pick a card…” 

He does, and Mr. Fell performs a rather lengthy trick ending in the reveal of an entirely different card than the one Crowley started with. He briefly considers saying so, but Mr. Fell gives him that _look_ again — the slight crease behind the eyebrows, frightfully sincere, absolutely ridiculous and pouty and Crowley _melts_ at it and he _hates_ how much he melts at it and the man _knows_ he’s melting at it because the next thing Crowley says, without any input from his brain, is, “That’s it!”

It prompts what might be the first genuine applause of the performance. Underwhelming though it is, Mr. Fell exudes such radiant joy at the sound that Crowley wishes for a second pair of sunglasses. 

_I did that,_ he realizes. _I made him that happy._

Crowley notices belatedly that he's smiling back, wide and unguarded before the whole room. So now would be a great time to pencil in regretting everything down to his very birth — he was really behind on that today anyway — followed by a good skulk back to his seat. Crowley may be a killjoy, but you can’t say he isn’t efficient about it.

He collapses back into the chair, trying to look suitably put-off by the whole thing. This is what he gets for trying to be nice. _Smiling._ In _front_ of people. What a disaster.

Never mind the look on Mr. Fell's face being worth the humiliation he suffered to see it.

Crowley shoves that thought away and returns his attention to the stage, where the magician has begun his next trick with a renewed vigor.

"You see, it’s me ol’ top hat. But wait!" 

He taps the hat rim three times with a wand then checks inside. By the look in his eyes you’d think he’s found the Holy Grail — or something even more elusive, like Crowley’s dignity. 

"What’s this? Could it be…?" With his hands and most of his forearms in the hat, he carefully pulls out a large white bunny. "Our old furry friend, _Harry the Rabbit!?"_

He waves the bunny in a circle, gasping and smiling maniacally — undoubtedly the most amused person in the room.

"It was in the table," says a six-year-old.

The Amazing Mr. Fell elects not to respond.

He maintains this approach for the remainder of the performance, against an increasingly loud volley of criticisms. If Crowley had a heart he might feel a bit sorry for him. But if Crowley had a brain he would also note that Mr. Fell seems entirely impervious to negative feedback, and is probably doing this for his own fun anyway. Which Crowley does. Have a brain, that is.

It’s only at the end of the evening, as he approaches his Bentley, that he begins to question that fact.

“Hello,” says Mr. Fell, falling into step with him.

“Bluh?” Crowley says eloquently.

“I wanted to thank you _ever_ so much for your assistance earlier. It’s much simpler to do these things with an adult member of the audience.”

“S’no problem.”

“I wondered if I might, ah, repay you for your services.” His eyes are coy, betraying a hidden nervousness, an excitement.

_Ohshitohshitohshit—_

“What did you, uh, have in mind?” says Crowley. He reaches the car just in time to lean suavely against the hood. 

Mr. Fell lights up. He pulls a coin from his waistcoat pocket then opens his palm, which is suddenly empty. 

And Crowley has the sinking realization that he and Mr. Fell have drastically different ideas of what is implied by a cheeky offer of repayment.

The man swipes a hand behind Crowley’s waist and reveals the coin once again, gasping for effect. He does it again by his shoulder, and again by his ear. A light bursts through Crowley’s heart each time, and he snuffs each one out like a human candelabra.

“In your finger,” he says flatly.

“No— it was in your ear.”

“It was in your pocket, and then you picked—”

“It was— _close_ to your ear.”

“Never anywhere near my ear.”

“Oh, you’re no fun,” he says, placing the coin in Crowley’s hand. 

Crowley tries to pocket the coin and finds his palm empty again. "What the—” 

“Missing something?” Mr. Fell raises an eyebrow. 

Crowley is missing a lot of things — namely, his patience — but also the feeling of the other man’s hand caressing his face, just for a moment, and the trail of sparks it left behind. God help him. If Crowley stands here for one more second he’s going to do something very stupid.

“I’m missing a stiff drink, thanks.” He projects as much annoyance into his voice as possible — most of it self-directed, but Mr. Fell doesn’t need to know that. “Imagination can only take apple juice so far. So if you don’t mind, I’ll be off now.”

“Of course. It was a pleasure to meet you,” he says earnestly. “I do have a rabbit waiting for me, so I’d better get a bit of a wiggle-on, but perhaps I’ll see you again someday.”

It’s too much.

_“What?”'_

“I said I hoped we might see each other again.”

“I heard that — it was the _wiggle-on_. Never mind. Look, I—” Crowley lapses into anguished silence, then tries again. “Maybe we could, y’know, get a drink sometime. I would like that. If, if you want.”

The man’s smile grows softer, deeper. He raises a hand to the side of Crowley’s face and does not pull away — he leans in until their cheeks touch, until his voice is low and close. 

“You might want to check that pocket, my dear.” He kisses his cheek, and Crowley’s breath stutters. “I have more up my sleeve than you might think.”

And like that, he walks away. 

Crowley watches him go, touching the ghost of his lips on his face and feeling a jittery mess from the inside out. With half a mind he reaches into his right pocket and finds — incredibly — a folded slip of paper. It’s a note written in perfect copperplate handwriting:

_Are you certain you aren’t a magician, darling? When I look at you, all else seems to disappear._

_Yours,_

_Aziraphale Z. Fell_

Followed by a phone number. 

Crowley laughs, half joy, half disbelief. Of course this is the trick he pulls off. _Of course._ And of course Crowley is completely besotted by it because somehow everything about this man feels tailor-made to charm and embarrass him in equal measure. 

Except for the mustache, which has nothing to do with this. 

He takes a moment to collect himself, suppressing a blush and trying not to feel like a lovesick teenager. He met this man all of three hours ago. But it doesn’t work, not even a little bit, and he finds himself wondering if ten minutes would be too soon to call.

Probably. 

He’ll wait until he gets home. That’s at least fifteen.

With a happy heart he opens the car door, sits down, and hears at least a dozen coins clatter from the folds of his jacket onto the floor.

_"God fucking damn it."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so in the course of writing this i re-watched aziraphale’s magic act about fifty times (for _research_ ) and i REALIZED!! in the beginning of the show they explain the baby swap as a card trick, whereas in the book they describe it as “a trick they do with one pea and three cups.” and when the show cuts to aziraphale’s magic act at warlock’s birthday party, just before they realize he is not the real antichrist, _guess what trick he's doing._ pea in a cup! followed by a botched card trick where they all get mixed up on the floor!! EVERYTHING IS MEANT. thank you for coming to my TED talk (and thank you so much for reading!)


End file.
